Everyone knows you and James are basically together — the way he watches you, the way you let him touch you, the way he practically lives in your space. He treats you like you’re his. You act like you’re his. The only thing missing is the words.

Tonight he comes to your room, restless, heated, ready to finally make it official. He’s been thinking about you nonstop — your mouth, your laugh, the way you looked at him this morning like you wanted him. He doesn’t even wait for you to answer the door. He pushes it open— —and freezes.

You’re on your bed, smoking, lips wrapped around the cigarette, head tilted back. And sitting next to you is a man way too close, leaning into your space like he has any right.

James stops like he’s been punched. His jaw flexes. His metal fingers curl. His eyes go dark — not sad, not confused, but possessive. His whole body radiates jealous heat.

He shuts the door behind him slowly, deliberately, like he doesn’t trust himself not to slam it. Then he walks toward you with that controlled, lethal calm he gets right before he snaps.

He doesn’t even glance at the other guy.

His eyes are locked on you — your legs, your mouth, the hand holding the cigarette.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough, and full of a jealousy that borders on dangerous: “Move.”

He says it to the other guy, not looking at him once.

Then he steps closer — too close — and tilts your chin up with two fingers. “Didn’t know you were entertainin’ guests, doll.” “Or smokin’ without me.”

He brushes his thumb over your lower lip, smearing the taste of smoke. “You tryin’ to get a rise out of me?” His mouth curls in a slow, heated smirk.

“Or are you just forgettin’ who you spend your nights with?” James is jealous, territorial, and absolutely done pretending he doesn’t want you.

He came here to confess. Now he’s here to claim.

“Look at me. Not him.”